


Take Heart

by hardboiledbaby



Series: A New Beginning [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Wartime, mention of wartime casualties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25326361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardboiledbaby/pseuds/hardboiledbaby
Summary: London was a vibrant city, full of light and gaiety and colour.Then the War came, and everything changed.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: A New Beginning [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/137775
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Take Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the [**A New Beginning**](https://archiveofourown.org/series/137775) series, but can be read as a stand-alone piece.

_London of an evening: a bright and lively place. Raucous at times, to be sure, and even bawdy, for not all of its nighttime attractions were intended for the more delicate sensibilities, or the more prudish ones. Still and all, it was a vibrant city, full of light and gaiety and colour._

_Then the War came, and everything changed._

*****

I walked as swiftly as I could, but it was well past dusk when I reached home. No light shone from the street lamps, of course, as the nightly blackouts were in effect. Throughout the city, families huddled in their homes with their curtains drawn tightly against the threat of enemy airships, against the fear of a fiery death raining down from above. The few people I passed in the street were barely visible in the dimness, grey solemn faces atop bundles of olive drab and khaki. All of London, it seemed, had been stripped of its vivacity; washed out, muted.

Only the blood of the wounded was as crimson as ever.

The flat was dark and empty as I turned the key and entered.

"You're late."

With a start, I realised that Holmes was there after all, sitting in the gloom. 

"I know. I’m sorry, I know it worries you." I did not mention the numerous times he himself had been late, or had not returned to our rooms altogether, caught up in his own urgent work with Mycroft at Whitehall. It had always been so, his consideration of my personal safety more important than his own. I had railed against it in times past, but not now. Not tonight. I was bone-weary and sick at heart.

As I closed the door behind me and divested myself of my coat and hat, Holmes lit the lamp. He was on the settee, clad in his favourite dressing gown, knees clasped to his chest.

"Have you been waiting for me for very long?" 

"Ages."

“Ah. Of course.” He had doubtless arrived mere minutes before I had, but it was not worth the effort to contradict him. “Again, my apologies.”

He gave me an assessing look, but as I did not care to be assessed just then, I turned to the sideboard. 

“Busier than usual?” he asked, his tone softening.

"No, and yes. A rush of new arrivals late this afternoon," I said as I poured out two very generous brandies. "I couldn't leave, we were short-handed."

"Your presence there is invaluable, but Barts is always short-handed, Watson, as is every hospital in London. There will always be patients."

The reminder, though kindly meant, was unneeded and unwelcome. 

“Yes.” Drinks in hand, I sat next to him and offered him a glass. The liquor brought a welcome warmth as it coursed through my throat. I closed my eyes and swallowed, again and again. “The war has taken away much, but in this respect it gives in abundance: more patients, more death.”

“Watson.” I felt him pull the empty glass from my fingers and take my hand in his.

I could hold out against his autocratic mien, it seems, but not his tender one.

“I lost three today,” I whispered, my throat tight.

“Good God. I’m so sorry, my dear fellow.” Holmes’ arms pulled me to him, and I found myself held in a fierce embrace, my head pressed firmly against his chest. 

“It doesn’t end, Holmes. More wounded are brought to us every day. We do what we can, but I fear—” I hesitated, then asked, “Tell me, do you see any light ahead, at all?” 

“I do. Yes, these are dark times, but we—Mycroft and I—see glimmers. We will have allies join us from across the ocean soon, I think. And there are other encouraging developments in the offing.” He kissed my forehead softly. “Take heart, John. Do not despair.”

I could hear his heartbeat under my ear, steady as a metronome, and my own began to match its rhythm. This man’s heart, more than anything else, was my wellspring of hope. As long as he chose to share it with me, I would have all I needed to carry on. 

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. 

“Forgive me, a momentary weakness,” I said, but he would have none of it.

“There is nothing to forgive, and in any case, you are not weak.” He brushed the dampness from my cheeks and added with gentle humour, “At least, not any weaker than I am.”

He loosened his embrace so I might lean back and look at him, at the bravest man I have known, at the tears in his eyes. 

I kissed him properly then, taking heart and giving it, drawing strength from the love, fortifying us both for the long journey yet ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> Lo and behold, another installment in the [**A New Beginning**](https://archiveofourown.org/series/137775) series! Who'da thunk? No one is more surprised than I am, after all this time, but I'm delighted to play in this 'verse again. Well, "delighted" in a somewhat angsty sort of way. As is my wont. *ahem* 😜
> 
> Written as a quick fill for the [**No Lights**](https://improbablepress.co.uk/blogs/improbable-press/no-lights-writing-prompts) prompt at Improbable Press' blog, then massaged* a bit more before posting here. Check out their [**writing prompts**](https://improbablepress.co.uk/blogs/improbable-press/tagged/writing-prompts) tag and join in the fun!
> 
> (*All massaging was self-administered; please pardon any pesky Americanisms and anachronisms.)


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